


In Sin and Error Pining

by englandwouldfalljohn



Series: All Roads Lead to Bart's: Alternate First Meetings [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Barista John Watson, Bisexual John Watson, Christmas, Christmas Music, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Fluff, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Harry Watson is in the Armed Forces, John Watson Plays the Piano, M/M, Meet-Cute, Missed Connections, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: Paris, Christmas Eve. John Watson finds one seat in the terminal while awaiting his train: a public piano bench. After a mysterious stranger joins on violin, John will be forced to finally face his own sexuality. Over the course of a year back home in London, he grows into himself, yet remains haunted by the memory of the man who started it all...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: All Roads Lead to Bart's: Alternate First Meetings [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/590932
Comments: 54
Kudos: 65
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BookGirlWithLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookGirlWithLove/gifts).



> This fic is completely written! Two chapters will be posted every Friday, finishing with an early post on Christmas Eve.
> 
> Beta and Britpick by the inimitable [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin/works) — all remaining mistakes are my own.

He must have been crazy, traveling on Christmas Eve. The bustling terminal was brimming with passengers, clambering around and over one another in an endless crescendo of auditory assault. John let out a huffed curse at the thickly sliced pain in his Achilles’ tendon as a passing anonymous suitcase slammed into his leg. Forget an apology—they hadn’t even spared a backward glance. He slung the straps of his ludicrously overstuffed backpack over both shoulders and swung it slightly as he wove his way through the train station, desperately seeking a metre of personal space. He had roamed the neighbourhood for two hours, killing time and the feeling in his polyester-clad hands during his connection. The swarms of last minute shoppers and early diners had done nothing to assuage his guilt. They had only left him pathetically lonely, and cold. Way too damn cold. 

Summoning a fool’s hope, he headed for the nearest sigil of all things warm. It didn’t matter, he told himself, as he joined the Starbucks queue. It didn’t matter that he was alone, that he had left her alone. On Christmas.  _ Dammit. _ No, no. It was fine, would be fine. Harry wouldn’t disown him. She hadn’t inherited their father’s penchant for that. John consoled himself with a mental review of the contents of his pack, all the things she had insisted he bring home with him. Two new jumpers. Spicy mustard that apparently only Germans could get quite right. A wool scarf he suddenly realized he could have been wearing all afternoon. And assurances that the next three months on his flat had been paid in advance. He’d hated that part, though his gratitude was genuine. A loan could have covered housing someplace, he was sure, but she had insisted that her lifetime enlistment meant she had the means. He allowed for that one awkward hug she didn’t have to initiate, and mumbled out unsolicited details about his furniture. 

“Flat white?” he slurred. The barista answered him with perfect clarity, but his lack of French still made him feel like one of those travelers who insisted English was the only language one need know in the world. His self-conscious, ‘merci,’ came with pleading eyes.  _ This is my fault. I know it. Forgive me. _

In the fourteen minutes since he had joined the queue, the volume of noise and palpable collective irritation in the terminal had only increased. John swayed with the current of the crowd as he made his way—thanks to the blessedly bilingual signage—in the direction of his train. And suddenly, there it was. A haven, a good two metres avoided by the throng: a piano bench. The sign invited passersby to play; he knew that much from having seen these in London. He’d never ventured near one, for fear that someone he knew, some beautiful woman from one of his courses, perhaps, would hear his rudimentary attempt at music and he’d become a laughingstock, never to date again. But here in Paris, he was freer. Here, he could play to his heart’s content, without worrying which side of talent he landed on that day, whether he swung from terrific to terrible with each bar. Here… well, here, there was a place to sit down. 

After tucking his pack beside a leg of the dark wooden oasis before him, John sat silently for a moment, eyes closed against the whirlpool of humanity. He shrugged off his jacket, a near groan of relief escaping his lips at finally resting. He knew the train in from Bielefeld must have been warm enough, but it seemed as though he’d been frozen for ages. In a stereotypical gesture for which he absolutely loathed himself, he cracked his knuckles before laying his fingers against the smooth keys. They reflected the fluorescent bulbs from the ceiling lights, shining like stars, like beacons in John’s own clouded life. He smiled, the sound of the crowd fading, and began to play.

_ O, holy night… the stars are brightly shining… _

Above the hunt-and-peck rhythm of the piano, he could hear something stirring, slicing through the crowd. Thin at first, then filling out into a gloriously rich, round accompaniment—far more than John’s mediocre playing deserved—were the dulcet tones of a violin. The chatter of the crowd around him faded to a dull hum, as curious whispers asked the question on his own mind: who on earth was that?

John hazarded a raised head, and there he was. Midnight curls swaying across a milky temple with each expert pull of the bow, instrument pressed between a sharp chin and an even sharper black shirt collar, and eyes… John had never seen anything like those eyes. Locked on his own, willing him to play more beautifully than he’d believed himself capable, holding him firmly there, right there, in an endless moment. The simple hymn went on, drawn between them through verses that could not have previously existed, but which made sense of everything John had never put into words.

And then he was gone. He had dropped to one knee at an overhead announcement in French, collected his coat, bag, and case in one impossibly graceful movement, and it was over. John sat stunned, enveloped in a world of silence broken only by his heartbeat resonating in his ears, before reality sped up and crashed over him like an icy wave. There were noises and smells, people and lights, and he was cold. His coat felt foreign and unnaturally rough as his hands shoved numbly through the sleeves. Adjusting his pack to comfort was apparently a thing of the past, and as he fiddled clumsily with the straps, his elbow jerked, sending a coffee cup careening across the piano top. He thanked God it was empty, and leaned across the polished surface. As his fingers closed around it, it clicked: this didn’t belong to John, this was  _ his. _ John’s breath sped up. It would have a name on it, just as his own had. It would have a name, and John would know what to call… he decided he couldn’t think about that right now. He couldn’t think about why he was so concerned about knowing his name, or why he was actually a bit nervous. All he knew in that moment was, the guy had ordered a drink, the barista had asked for a name, and the guy had said…

‘Non.’ 

_ Fuck. _

***

John’s gaze disappeared into the neon-patterned cushion of the headrest before him.  _ Non. _ Violin Guy, as his mind had so cleverly dubbed him, had been asked for a name, and had simply refused to oblige. Clearly the barista had a sense of humour, but it left John none the wiser about the identity of his spontaneous playing partner. He huffed, fogging the window with his breath and drawing a tut of disapproval from the older woman sitting beside him. She didn’t make eye contact or say anything further.  _ Also British, then. _ He closed his eyes, sinking back into his seat and his contemplation of Dr Non. 

He was tall. At least, he’d seemed so from where John was sitting at the piano. And he was… young. Around his own age, he suspected. No more than early twenties. Though it was hard to be sure, what with that jawline that John was absolutely not picturing behind half-lowered eyelids. 

He didn’t know which way was up by the time the train lurched into St Pancras, the woman beside him fleeing as though he’d caused some horrid personal offense by literally breathing. He stretched a bit to catch hold of a loose backpack strap dangling from the overhead rack, and gave a tug which did nothing but annoy the queue of exhausted, eager last-minute travelers forming behind him. An apologetic grimace and two painfully noticeable hop-grabs dislodged his pack, and he was rushing to disembark, same as the rest, though perhaps the red in his face was rather less from the cold. The cash Harry had plied him with was burning in his pocket.  _ Just this once. _ He doubled back under the sign indicating the underground and headed instead for the exit, and a nice cozy looking cab by the kerb. As the car sped through the tail-end of the first traffic light, John could have sworn he caught sight of a mess of burnt chocolate curls in a sleek town car to his right… but that was impossible, he lamented.  _ He _ was someplace across the channel. Probably smoking languidly, a glass of wine in his hand and the perfect partner nestled by his side.

_ Like sugarplums,  _ he mused, tripping up the stairs to his dull, empty flat.  _ Or satsumas in a stocking… _ He drifted off to that thought, still fully clothed, the clunk of the radiator beating time in some very odd dreams. 

***

John woke to the taste of stale coffee and the buzzing of… of…  _ what the bloody hell is buzzing? _ Once he’d torn through the least likely compartments of his travel bag, he eventually laid hands on his mobile and set about replying to his sister. Merry Christmas, yes safe, etc. etc. He didn’t care that he was alone on the holiday, never had. His belief in God was perfunctory at best, a casual companion who was frankly lousy at holding a conversation, but was wonderful as a sounding board (if a bit on the judgmental side now and again). No, he wasn’t missing religion particularly. 

He wandered into the kitchen. Well, he called it a kitchen. More a half-wall of stovetop, mini-oven, and, gift of all gifts, a microwave left behind by the previous tenant. Automatic actions came: hand up, mug down. Kettle on, instant in, pour, stir, wince. Milk. He always forgot the milk. Trouble was, he wouldn’t have any milk after being gone for nearly a week. None that should be consumed by humans who favoured the proper working of their intestines, anyway. Oh well, soldier on, Harry would say. He padded in stripe-socked feet across the surprisingly not frozen floor and looked out. 

Snow. That’s what it was. He missed snow. Blanketing his problems, spreading a tender hush across the landscape. Thoughts could stay buried under snow, and then he’d be free. To read his silly armchair detective novellas, write the story he’d show to no one, perhaps get it published one rainy day in spring—not to be famous. No, John didn’t want fame. All the paparazzi and social media and that. But a living. Or even just that sense of accomplishment, the peace of mind that would come from knowing he could do it, could be an artist of sorts. He was content enough studying medicine, enjoyed it immensely some days. But it wasn’t a calling, or a passion. On snowy days at home, pursuing a passion seemed so close, so attainable. The Earth came measurably closer to his door, and nothing seemed far fetched. Not even  _ him. _


	2. Chapter 2

A train to London would wait for no man, not even Sherlock Holmes himself. He tore through the station with all the grace of an alley cat chasing a moving meal, wool and canvas swinging from his arms like a metronome of lost fate. He barreled through a veritable wall of disembarking passengers from Marseille, huffing pathetically toward the next stile, where he thrust his first-class ticket in the face of the wretched thirty-something attendant. (She had clearly had it out with her boyfriend the weekend before, and was now debating whether to return his gift or keep it for herself). He swore that, this year, he really would stop smoking. 

Sherlock settled into the mild recline of his seat, which he would consider hideously overpriced had his brother not been paying the fare, and arranged his belongings properly. With everything neatly stowed, he would breathe easier. Order. That’s what his life needed, what the gods of sobriety required. Not escaping to the continent uninvited on the heels of Interpol, certain he could corner the antiques smuggler before his British counterparts finished processing their paperwork. Not being hauled back at the last moment by an overbearing family intent on celebrating a holiday that worshipped no one they believed in. And definitely not having his last moments of freedom hijacked by a beautiful blond and his less than stunning rendition of a ironically timed Christmas carol. 

A bad knee at too young an age—20, perhaps, the same as him—that must have made working the pedals hard, particularly in this cold. A hunt-and-peck determination at the keys, tongue poking through gritted teeth, clenched against failure, against quitting. That level of commitment to such an inconsequential act was… impressive. But no, Sherlock didn’t need to be thinking about these things. Not now, not ever. He did not wonder what position the other had occupied to result in such a sustained injury, or why his playing seemed more confident, more effortless, the longer he stared into Sherlock’s eyes. He did not ask himself why his own eyes were there to be stared into, or where his sudden burst of endorphins was coming from. 

Sherlock shut his eyelids against the deductive tornado threatening at the horizon of his mind. Family. That was his focus. Mother. Father.  _ Mycroft. _ His fist clutched reflexively at the pocket containing his cigarettes. He hoped he would arrive early enough to inhale a few shuddering breaths of nicotine comfort before collapsing into the inevitable town car. He’d known this would happen; it was why he’d bothered with a weekender bag and his violin. Any other time of year, he’d have happily left for a few days jaunt with the clothes on his back and the thrill of the chase. Three days before Christmas, however, and he knew what the end would bring. Of course, he had argued with his brother about it, had ignored his calls until Mycroft had sent a text threatening to reveal his ‘civilian interference’ to the local authorities. He hated to admit it, but he knew when he’d been beaten. So here he was, headed ultimately to Sussex, needing to review his responses to the annual questions about life, love, and his pursuit of a doctorate. And all he could think of was… football or rugby?


	3. Chapter 3

If John had believed his mystery man would stroll into the cafe while he hung around, sipping surreptitiously home-brought tea and chatting with Mike during the slow hours of his shift, he was unfortunately mistaken. Violin Guy may not have been in England, let alone London, and Mike had questioned how he would even recognize this man if—“in all the cafes, in all the cities, in all the world”—he happened to stroll into this one. John found the question more ridiculous than the quote, though he was exceedingly grateful to Mike for simply getting it. He’d never said anything to anyone about  _ not women _ before, and the lighthearted but decidedly not mocking tone of the reference made clear that Mike was the right choice for dropping these implicit, albeit rather obvious, hints. As to the question itself, he had no doubt about his ability to recognize his partner (as he had guiltily taken to calling him within the safety of his own mind). 

John took the jest for what it was, and spared Mike his mental description of Violin Guy, which reached a level of specificity typically reserved for a forensic sketch artist. The point of the man’s chin, the jut of his nose, the sway of his hair as he coaxed auditory caramel from the depths of his violin, were all laid out with a degree of awe that made him wonder how, as recently as that Christmas Eve journey a few weeks prior, he had still convinced himself he was straight. He wasn’t sure finding out like this was much better than his confusion. An obsessive crush on a person he’d never see again couldn’t bode well for his already tenuous mood in this dim, grey winter. Maybe now that he was certain (mostly certain, probably) that he was… bisexual? Pansexual? He should get on with finding a crush a little closer to home. He absently pondered the mobile order on the tiny plastic rack, sitting as ostentatiously alone as he suddenly felt. 

‘Who’s this Sherlock person, and what in hell could make him need four shots of espresso in his drink at—oh shit, Mike I gotta go!’

‘Stuck in another evening lab this term, eh?’

The cafe door swung shut on John’s muttering. A January night was tumbling down over the city, the wind whipping his last curses from his mouth and tossing them into traffic. He envied anyone who wasn’t trying to catch a rush hour bus in this frigid urban wasteland, who was at home with someone to hold them through these sad, unseasonably dry nights. And at 120cc of liquid motivation, he envied Sherlock Holmes. 

Each dreary day ran into the next, the dull ache in John’s leg drawing no distinction between them as February rolled in. His courses were already near to overwhelming, and his meager funds for the month were beginning to run low. There was nothing else for it.

‘Mike?’

‘Hm?’ He was adding the final touches to a chocolate topped pile of decadence in a takeaway cup. 

‘Any chance this place is hiring?’

‘Oh! Matter of fact, yes. Shift ending just before mine, if you’ve got the time free. They can probably interview you in about ten minutes?’

Perfect. Two doctors-to-be pouring posh chai concoctions by the hour. He took a breath and an application form, and headed into the loo to collect himself. As the front door jingled behind him, he vaguely realized he’d need to school himself to look up with a smile at the sound. He didn’t hear the man enquire after his mobile order, or sigh into his quadruple espresso before disappearing into the bitter afternoon.

***

It was trite and disingenuous, and John hated himself for each and every one, but the manager had insisted he draw hearts on the takeaway cups the entire week leading up to Valentine’s Day. At least today would be the last day of this nonsense, and he could go back to being single and exhausted without the added layer of tragedy the season imposed upon him. His shift was almost finished, just in time to run off to his chemistry lab, and Mike was already in the back clocking in and washing up. He just needed to get through the new set of online orders before rushing out the door, and luckily for him, only one appeared on the screen. 

He measured 30ml once, twice, thr- Sherlock Holmes. It had to be an order for Sherlock Holmes. John finished off the drink, wondering what kind of name that was, anyway, and began drawing hearts on the cup. And then, for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, a bee. A happy little bee. With a scarf, just like—oh. He had managed over a week without thinking about him, blue scarf trailing behind him as he slid out of sight. Perhaps if John had been quick enough, had reached out and held on…

More wistfully than the occasion required, he placed the cup in the rack, let his eyes wander to the window, and gasped. There, approaching the shop against all logical workings of the universe, was his bus, five minutes early!  _ Shit! _

John barely greeted Mike as he tore off his apron, chucking it toward the linens bin and bolting out the front door with mere moments to spare. He huffed into his ungloved hands, thanking whoever was watching out for him, and squeezed by a large puffy coat, ostensibly containing another passenger, into a window seat. And there it was, the spark of pain radiating from his knee down along the bone. John bent double to rub at it with both hands. He didn’t see the frizz of black curls hurrying down the pavement, or the wool jacket slipping through the coffee shop door.

***

The desert wind tunnel of winter turned into the deluge of early spring; John didn’t know which was worse. He trudged down the high street, umbrella raised miserably and jacket tucked high around his ears. Bloody buses, rerouting this time of year. The walk to his seminar was bad enough from his usual drop point; going it on foot from his flat in this endless parade of wet was enough to make him debate his entire future career path.  _ Maybe organic chemistry wasn’t that important to medicine? _ The pavement was a sea of black domes, bobbing around and careening off one another—the roof of a silent world, wrapped in gloves and trench coats. At least this morning he’d thought to bring a thermos of tea with him. He doubted he’d drink it, but it was cheap and made him feel like his life was somehow further along than it really was. Functional people carried insulated mugs of tea, fashionable people, adult types. He would be a doctor in a few odd years, and then he’d have the right to this earl grey company. It wasn’t that he was faking it for now; he was simply practicing.

The day ran on much the way it started, with John eventually carrying his pack on his chest to avoid soaking his notes as he stumbled up slick kerbs in his rush to gain one room from the last. He spent his lunch tucked inside the cacophonous student union canteen, the volume of which always tripled when the weather drove them all indoors like cattle. The salad he had secured himself was dull and rather wilted, but unable to rely on sport or treadmills, he was damned if he would lose his physique entirely. He had lost so much already, he mooned, shunting a greenish tomato to the outskirts of the bowl. He would not lose this. 

At least the rain had let up to a lazy drizzle as he backtracked toward home. Umbrella tucked into a mesh outer pocket, he had strapped his pack on at an angle, desperate to avoid adding its constant drip to the existing agony of his knee. It might take a bit of pressure off if he limped, but he refused to cede that much to his injury. It was probably all in his head, anyway. That’s what the problem really was… not the bad tackle, but  _ himself. _

Vehicles careening down the slick streets sent waves of wet over the edges of the pavement, driving John inward toward the shop fronts. A bakery, a competitor cafe, a store selling expensive trainers, and— _ wait, what was that? _ John doubled back to the full length window of a music shop. He had sworn he’d seen a tall figure with milky pale skin holding a violin bow, but the apparition had fled at his return. The glass was smudged with fingerprints, rivulets of his misfortune rolling awkwardly down the pane. They sliced his reflection into fragments. He wanted to smash it to bits.

His Calibanesque rage was interrupted by the sound of a bus approaching the nearby stop. Wincing against his reality, John jogged ahead and clambered aboard. He didn’t care where it was going, as long as it was away from there. 


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stood from behind the display and promptly dropped the bow again. That pack… he knew that pack and the coat it was slung across, saw them in his most foolhardy dreams. That pack had been bundled at the foot of a piano, full to bursting with unwanted clutter, and belonged to the most genuinely unselfconscious smile he had ever seen. And that pack was walking away from the front of the shop at that very moment!

His brain stuttered to a halt, and for an eternal second he stood, mouth gaping like a goldfish. When, finally, his parasympathetic nervous system caught up to his racing heart, he scooped up the bow, tossed it at the clerk, and dodged around the delicate displays, eliciting a squawk of concern from behind. Sherlock threw open the front door, bells chiming and bespoke Italian leather sliding out from beneath him to send him crashing down painfully on the pavement. His eyes scoured the streets with laser-like precision, but from his pathetic vantage point at waist-height to the crowd, he could catch nothing but the fumes of a bus forcing it’s bulk into traffic. 

He warred with himself as he rose and recovered the warmth of the music shop. He knew the likelihood that his playing partner had simply happened past that precise location while he happened to be inside was extremely low. Add to that the distinct possibility the pack and coat he had barely glanced when he was bending to collect his own gear had, in fact, been other than he imagined, or that more than one person in the whole of London favored the same combination, and it was nearly impossible to accept that he had seen what he so desperately desired to see. 

And yet, impossible it was not. 

He whipped out a card to pay for the violin bow he’d been considering, earning a curt nod from the clerk, who no doubt expected an apology. The amateur hardly knew what he was talking about and was only making the sale by sheer luck of pulling out the correct piece. Sherlock would grant him a perfunctory smile of gratitude, nothing more. Shopping in this town was tedious. 

Slinging his greatcoat back onto his body, he folded the sodden umbrella he’d deposited upon arrival and swept out into the growing melee of pedestrians. He stared a moment toward his left, eyes roaming one last time for the ghost of fleeting destiny.  _ Nonsense. _ A sharp turn right, then, and off to Bart’s for a few hours independent research. At least he’d have his coffee to look forward to in a few hours time. He wondered if the barista would still be drawing him bees. 


	5. Chapter 5

After five weeks of solid rain, the only signs of spring were delivered by the black marker in John’s hand. It surprised him how much he enjoyed working at the coffee shop; he had assumed it would be a necessary evil in his life, something beneath a man hoping to make his way into surgical studies in nearly a year’s time. There was something hypnotic about the whir of the espresso machine, the momentary displacement in time from the whoosh of steam wafting before his eyes. There was nothing artistic about the filter coffee orders or the over-priced double-bagged teas, but something in those posh drinks made him feel oddly creative. He was mixing personal brews, specific sweetness tailored to the tastes of the sort of person that he not-so-secretly longed to be. He had feared he would find himself giving up, sinking into the despair of the desperate. But locked inside this cheerful, warm haven from the pouring heavens, he was growing ever more connected. 

It didn’t hurt that the usual fare here seemed to be a more… alternative bunch. Neon hair or throwback punk attire, men eyeing up his stubble and winking their thanks as often as women. Something was stirring in John’s chest, and it felt sinful and right, dangerous and honest all at the same time. Maybe he hadn’t said it, yet. Maybe he wouldn’t have to. Maybe he could just  _ be. _

***

John rushed off the bus and into the shop. The rain had been threatening all morning, and though not a drop had fallen, the borrowed metropolis air that filled his lungs felt soggy and inevitable. In his haste to get to the back and shed the jacket he’d been wearing for what felt like years, he bumped a customer examining the pastry case. A mumbled apology and he was safe in the small stock room, trading up for a green apron that clashed terribly with his features, and lent him the sort of recognizable anonymity reserved for the neo-serving class. He loved it. 

When he’d smartened himself up a bit in the employee loo, examined the beard he’d been allowing to grow the past month or so, he popped out behind the till. 

‘Alright, Tara?’ he checked with the other staff member on double with him. He was glad; she was funny, and it was nice not to be stuck alone for hours. 

‘All good, just the usual,’ she shot back, before turning to the guy John had inadvertently shoulder-checked. 

‘The usual for me, too,’ the man replied, smiling.

‘Oh! Hey, Tom! Sorry ‘bout that, before.’ John blushed lightly at the chocolate scone he was plating, grateful the cacophony of macchiato-making behind him delayed the conversation while Tom paid. When Tara finally slid a large mug between them, Tom dropped his change in the tip jar to lift a plate in each hand. The customer behind him coughed pointedly, as he slowly looked John over. 

‘I’ve always liked that jumper on you,’ and he was crossing the cafe to a window seat. Tara, as she’d always done, had left a heart in the foam. John rang up a large ginger peach green tea for takeaway, and couldn’t believe he was jealous.

He wasn’t stuck with the feeling for long. Half an hour later, there he was, hand ruffling his perma-bedhead confidently as he approached the counter. Tom slid the stacked plates back across the faux-marble and grinned. 

‘What’re you up to tomorrow night?’

‘Me? I, er…’ John stammered. Was Tom, sweet and sexy chocolate scone and a large macchiato on Thursdays Tom, asking  _ him- _

‘Let me take you out? Here,’ he handed over his mobile, laughing softly at the dropped jaw before him, ‘give me your number. I’ll text you about it.’

Thankfully, John’s hands were less stunned than his brain, which had all but shorted out when he saw the name on the contact waiting to be added: John Cute Barista. He added his number by rote, and when their fingers brushed as he handed back the phone, he was gifted with a stunning smile. 

‘See you tomorrow, then.’ Tom slipped on a raincoat and wiggled his phone in the air before stepping out onto the pavement.  _ No one should be that attractive,  _ John thought freely for the first time in his life. Time flew for the rest of his shift, and when he prepped the mobile orders before taking off, he forgot the drawings completely. 

It was mid-May, and the rain had finally stopped. 

***

Tom was waiting outside the old cinema holding two tickets to whatever that latest superhero movie was, and grinning like a kid in a sweet shop. The moment they stepped inside, he shot over to the refreshments counter and handed over an obscene amount of cash for a large popcorn. John tried to politely refrain from noticing, and instead examined the refurbished space. The juxtaposition of cardboard cutouts and preview screens against the velvet curtains and thick scarlet carpeting made him uneasy; it reminded him of something he couldn’t place. Something just out of reach, like a shadow on the edges of the frame. He rubbed the back of his neck and shoved the feeling further into the wings of his heart. Whatever it was, he didn’t need to be dealing with it now. 

His date, because  _ fuck _ , John realized,  _ he was on a date, _ was perfect. Tom held open doors and balanced the popcorn on his thigh against the arm rest so John wouldn’t have to reach into his lap. He brushed their shoulders together, and laughed at all the right moments. After the film, they sat in a posh cafe nearby, grinning at their fork battle for the last shared piece of flavourless tiramisu. It was easy and normal and the most bizarre experience John could remember having. 

They were parting ways on the pavement just outside, and John—without a second thought—was agreeing to do it again soon. Tom hesitated a moment, then leaned forward just enough to set John’s heart racing. Gentle knuckles came up to John’s cheek and grazed slowly along his bearded jaw. 

‘I like it.’

Time froze, and that tiny bit of something peeked it again at the corner of John’s mind. It must have shown on his face, whatever it was, because Tom simply smiled his soft, dazzling smile, and walked away with a wink. 

John had walked halfway home before his senses came back online.  _ What the hell had that been? Tom, Hot Tom, funny, sweet, popcorn-purchasing Tom, had wanted to kiss him, and he blanked!  _ One thing John knew for certain; next time, he wouldn’t act like such a novice. Next time, he would be ready. 

***

Tom Atwater was a twenty-two year old paralegal from a middle class family. The first time he and John kissed, it was their fourth date. He wanted to take it slowly, he said, being newly out himself. John wasn’t entirely sure what Tom was out as, and he didn’t know whether it was ok to ask. He didn’t know whether he was out, either. There had been a lot of casual touches to arms, lingering looks and conspiratorial laughter. But when people looked at them, did they see what was happening, or what they’d been conditioned to see—two young friends, albeit close ones, hanging out? And if no one saw it for what it was… what did that mean for him?

John had been wondering all afternoon whether there was a neon sign above his head flashing the words ‘bisexual, apparently,’ and if not, whether perhaps there should be. Would it make a difference if he reached out and held Tom’s hand? Would the safety net of his heterosexuality come crashing down, refusing to bear his weight any longer, and topple his entire self-concept to the ground? Or would it be devastatingly anti-climactic, no angels singing or devil’s dancing around a fire, just a hand in a hand, walking through St James’ park?

They settled on a bench in front of a duck pond. Off to John’s right, two middle aged men were sat squabbling like an old married couple. He wondered if that’s what they were, or if his desperation to normalize his situation made him guilty of the same projection he suspected others cast onto him. A fond chuckle beside him brought him back to the purpose for his wonderings. 

‘I’m the red-headed one.’

Tom. Beautiful, sincere, confident Tom, was the slightest bit flushed, as if he had just made a major pronouncement. Later that night, John would lie awake, chemistry books still spread on the floor, and replay the moment over and over, searching for some sign of what had possessed him, as he leaned in, swiftly and without a single thought in his mind, and kissed Tom full on the mouth. 


	6. Chapter 6

The crowds had already begun gathering for that evening’s performance at Regent’s Park, forcing Sherlock out the urban end of Baker Street. He wandered past pavement sales and outdoor cafes, savouring the contemporary signs that June was budding. He played the stoic well as it served his needs, but a true romantic heart lurked beneath that slender rib cage, and he was in the mood to follow it unquestioningly across London. A long stride, even slowed from his usual determined pace, carried him far from home. It was as if something was calling to him, drawing him out, waiting for him to come around just one more corner to be discovered. 

Sherlock didn’t believe in such things _officially,_ but there was immense joy in the private entertainment of such ideas as luck or fate. He reveled in the excitement which tinged his blood with an edge of hope, this occasional odd sensation of _just maybe._ On and on he walked, through neighbourhoods and tourist thoroughfares. This city afforded no direct routes to anywhere, and it suited his unseen guide perfectly. He strolled along the edges of the parks, walking that mysterious tightrope between grey and green, noise and hush, bustling metropolis and modern paradise. 

He came to a halt across the road from the palace gates, admiring the flame-cherry red of the guards’ coats, the deep black fur of their famous headgear. They stood in complimentary relief against the opulent white of their mansion station. They saw everything, observed everything, were prepared to react at a moment’s notice to any challenge which dare arise, yet they appeared unmoved, unfazed, unhurried in the world. Sherlock licked his lips, tasting his desperation to reach those elite heights. But his siren called, and despite his best efforts, he could not disobey. 

He continued on behind that symbol of empire, and was finally admitted beneath the shade of a tree-lined path. The sun was shifting lower, and the shadows danced before his feet. He felt guilty stepping through the sunlit patches, uncertain that he had a right to be so disruptive. And then it was there: one bench of a pair, and he knew. He passed the odd couple feeding ducks, muttering to one another something that sounded suspiciously like a doomsday plot, and helped himself to the other seat. It was empty, of course—he wouldn’t sidle up to perfect strangers without cause, which he possessed far more often than the average citizen—yet, if he were another man, he would swear he could feel a trace of someone left behind. The backrest was warm, and though he knew it was only the sun, his mind supplied an image of blond hair winking in the late afternoon light. What were the odds that _he_ would be sitting here one day, lips parting in golden laughter, eyes shining with a vision of Sherlock no one else had ever bothered to see. 

But that was one step too far, and he cleared his throat, grounding himself back to the reality he’d left in his sitting room. He checked the time on his phone, and pulled up the app, feeling revived at the thought of his guilty pleasure. Then remembered what day it was. He may as well head into the coffee shop himself, then. There would be no bees today. 


	7. Chapter 7

June flew by in a haze of warm days and warmer kisses, tentative and playful and somehow always unexpected. Tom liked long walks, and despite the pain in his leg, John went along without letting on that anything was amiss. He liked jazz, and they listened while John nodded along enthusiastically, clueless as to why this was even a genre at all. But Tom was kind, and funny, and he felt safe in a way John hadn’t ever had the opportunity to feel before. It wasn’t love, John knew, but it was worth it. That dream of late spring, flowers blooming and courses ending, seemed to last far longer than the weeks assigned to it. But then, one day, it was more than warm. It was thick and uncomfortable, demanding and hot. It was when will you, when will I, when will we. It was July. 

The managers of the coffee shop had an absolute ridiculous marketing ploy in mind for the misery of the month: Christmas, on ice. Patrons flocked past windows dressed with snowflakes wearing sunglasses to order iced peppermint lattes and chilled apple cider with whipped cream. John despite every ironic holiday beverage he shook and swirled into an oversized dome-lidded takeaway cup. Including the ‘ho-ho-ho macchiato’ Tom was busy slurping through an obnoxiously wide straw while leant beside the order pickup stand. He was talking around the fact that they hadn’t been to each other’s flats yet, even though they’d been seeing each other nearly two months. John was only half listening, trying to wrap up the mobile orders so he could escape this mad wonderland, when the song on rotation changed from an obnoxious Frank Sinatra ‘Jingle Bells’—thank god—to a round opening note that stopped him in his tracks. The music swelled, Tom hedged around an invitation back to his, and John stood stock still, paper cup in hand, and listened. 

‘Long lay the world…’

‘And since you’ve got no more labs on after this, I thought-’

‘In sin and error, pining…’

John felt a chill ripple up his arm, the hair standing on end with no due owed to the air conditioning. 

‘I can’t. I’m sorry, I… I can’t.’

‘Oh. Well, I mean, if you’ve got something on tonight, we could always-’

‘No. Tom,’ John turned, finally looking at him. He was oblivious, poor guy. He was about to be so confused. John wouldn’t be able to explain, he knew he wouldn’t. And what’s worse, he wouldn’t try. ‘Tom. I…’

The dawning realization dragging Tom’s features down broke John’s heart. There was no good reason, not a single one, and yet he knew it was the only thing to do. The only kind thing, for both of them. They said their polite farewells, and he wondered if he’d be seeing one fewer familiar face around the shop. As he worked up the final mobile order, he wished there had been a better moment, and he thoroughly denied to himself that he was feeling an absurd sense of hope. Before chucking his apron into the linen bin, he took one last look at the drink in his hand, and added an extra bee.

***

The summer days yawned open slowly, petals unfurling in a time-lapse video of a garden. There was a layer of gauze between John’s thoughts and the honking shuffle of tourist London, and in the heat of late summer, it was almost like walking through a film, or someone else’s dream. He noticed men. He noticed himself noticing men, and he was curious about it. Not about sex, he wasn’t ready to think about that yet. He rarely even let himself think about kissing any of the guys he saw. He was a bit too exposed in the daytimes, which lasted well into the night, with the lights and sounds and scorching pavements. Even when his thoughts were about the physical, they weren’t about that. No, what John wondered about, spent his spare moments walking through the busy streets trying desperately to observe about himself, was what the attraction was  _ like,  _ how did it compare to his attraction to women, which he was absolutely certain he still felt—summer was an easy time to ascertain that. What he felt for women was easy, and he realized it wasn’t a matter of what came naturally, but of what had been allowed, encouraged even, since he was a child. 

His mother had teased him good-naturedly about having ‘girlfriends’ whenever he was paired with a girl for a school project or something equally benign. He didn’t let himself think about that, really; her memory bore a beautiful patina, and he wouldn’t let it turn to tarnish. He let the thought slip away through rain grates he passed as he headed toward his next shift. He’d never examined his attraction to women, it was always just there, on the sidelines, waiting to be called in at the right signal. But this, now… this didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t sharp, as he realized he’d feared it would be, in those days and weeks and years when it warred at the edge of his consciousness. 

The twinkle of the bell above the door and the whoosh of cool air greeting him broke the spell he’d been under. Time moved more quickly in here, measured in espresso shots and the beep of the card reader. Tom seemed to have changed his routine, as John hadn’t seen him since they split. He felt bad for not being disappointed. It wasn’t as though he was relieved either, but he felt as though he owed Tom more than feeling nothing. He mustered a bit of regret at the uselessness of remembering the other man’s order, and that seemed to give him the closure he’d been looking for. If that’s what closure meant. John didn’t really know, to be honest, but either way, it did the trick. 

Customers still flirted with him from time to time, and while he found no interest in returning their attentions, he no longer blushed or averted his eyes. He did owe Tom, he thought. This new John Watson, bold enough to withstand charming smiles and excessive tips without batting an eye, was the direct product of Tom’s having nudged him, gently but firmly, out of the closet.  _ Shit. He had been in the closet.  _ How cliche that felt. John chewed his lip and poured a French roast. A distant crack jarred his hand and he cursed as scalding liquid sloshed over his hand and shoes. The mug, by grace of the coffee gods, bounced harmlessly on the rubber mat at his feet. John thrust his arm beneath a stream of cool water and turned to the door as a cluster of customers shoved their way inside. The skies were opening up again; September had come too soon.

***

By the time courses resumed for John’s final year at university, his trudge through the rain-sodden streets to the bus stop had become a regular occurrence again. Only now, he’d have to fit in an internship at some hospital around classes and labs and his shift at the coffee shop. In Harry’s latest letter—she insisted on writing him from the army base as though it were a century ago, which he found dramatic even for her—she had urged him to give up the job, explaining that her recent promotion meant she could easily send more cash his way. He appreciated it, really, but he didn’t want to leave. The shop was a haven from the storms that dragged his days and nights into an otherwise endless corridor of chemistry, biology, and fruitless self-examination. John had a simple, clearly defined sense of purpose when he walked through those doors, and he wasn’t keen to let go of that. 

Autumn had indeed rushed onto the mainland, and John suspected it wouldn’t last long before turning its indifferent head and making way for winter. The foliage had gone all yellow and burnt orange overnight. Rogue leaves clung wetly to his shoes, demanding that no refuge come without an awkward moment of scraping feet against cheap brown mats. This was not the crisp, clean fall of a coming of age novel. It was dreary and coldish, boasting those kinds of grey-sky days that made John squint against a brightness that leeched half the colour out of everything it touched. He mused vaguely whether half the colour had gone out of him, too, and if so… which half?

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy pre-medical school studies, it was more that he didn’t feel the passion he kept hoping would come. He was certain Mike didn’t feel an all-consuming need to be a doctor, but neither did he suspect he was experiencing the same sense of mounting ennui. The idea appealed to him, going into surgeries, performing operations, saving lives. But it didn’t  _ move _ him. It was a profession, not a vocation. Did others have vocations? Or was that a fantasy reserved for another generation, in another time?

John considered the alternatives. Without Harry, this job wouldn’t be enough to keep him in his meager flat, let alone eating or buying books and supplies. And let’s face it, he was no closer to becoming a famous writer than he was to being the sort of armchair detective whose story he’d tell. He had chosen his path, and he would keep his head up and walk it, limp and all. 

John wrapped up his mobile orders, falling leaves and umbrellas gracing the white paper takeaway cups. All except one. He didn’t care if bees were out of season, and maybe this Sherlock person was craving summer as much as he was. One more tiny antenna and he would be off on a new route. He consulted his bus app and hustled toward the door; he needed to make it to St Bartholomew’s by half past. 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock Holmes did not need coffee. He did not have time for coffee. He didn’t even want coffee. He had wrangled his way onto a laboratory field team first year doctoral students weren’t supposed to have as an option, and despite his certainty—and it was certainty—that he could afford to miss the first seventeen minutes, turning up late to their introductory assignment would be poor form. 

He raced through rush hour streets, long strides falling gracefully on only the white bars of the crossings, cursing himself for this utter sentimentality. The staccato beat of raindrops on his umbrella insulated him from the world around, and he filled this private traveling chamber with calculations of traffic patterns, underground schedules, and the variable speed of his own brisk pace. If a certain light turned red and the usual delay on the Central Line held him up for three-point-seven minutes… yes. He could pull it off. 

Sherlock whipped out his phone as he waited for the pedestrian signal to change, app already open and thumb selecting the ‘previous orders’ tab. He wouldn’t dare switch his drink now, and this JW person, this purveyor of caffeine and apicultural delights, always poured at precisely the right temperature. He knew from the angle of the wings, the barista was left-handed, _just like him,_ and he knew it was a man as he had heard the guy on shift refer to him, though not by name. It was a shame and it wasn’t, not knowing his favourite barista’s identity. So few things in life could remain a mystery to him once he set out to know them, and unlike the whereabouts of the man who had slipped—possibly more than once—through his fingers, this was a more lighthearted, amusing secret.

On autopilot, he navigated through his Tuesday ritual, pressing the release four paces from the coffee shop door. He hated himself for returning to that unimpressive music shop week after week, feigning interest in and eventually having to purchase simple supplies, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of that pack and its owner. He hated himself for feeling abandoned when the bees had stopped, and for the guilt that accompanied his joy at their return, as if he were being somehow unfaithful. 

As he reached for the handle of the coffee shop entrance, he was reeling. The man staring back at him in the tinted front windows was pale and disheveled, a faraway desperation in cool green eyes. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he had seen himself properly. This wasn’t a man chasing knowledge, or even caffeine; it was a man chasing a ghost.


	9. Chapter 9

John Watson could not draw bats. His spiderwebs looked like snowflakes, and his pumpkins appeared oddly deflated. He had never given it much thought in the past, but this year, he hated Halloween. The young women who came in for pumpkin spice lattes were alright… more than, actually, when he let himself notice. His courses and internship at St Bart’s occupied such a large portion of his brain that he often forgot he was allowed to be a person. As he sat on the bus post-shift, slicing through the sleety rain with twenty or so fellow dripping passengers, he gave himself leave to consider a particularly attractive woman who’d ordered the seasonal special vanilla pumpkin chai. Shortish wavy dark hair, steel-blue eyes, fair skin…  _ oh.  _ John realized he’d do better to brush up on the previous week’s notes, make sure he was prepared for his shift in the lab in half an hour. 

He worked diligently, keeping his eyes down and his mind focused. By the time one of his teammates tapped him on the shoulder to signal the end of their shift, he found that his stomach was rumbling loudly. He hoped it hadn’t been going on for long. He packed up his notes and gathered his thankfully dry jacket, and headed down to the hospital canteen in search of something warm. One bowl of soup and a bread roll later, and he was feeling fit to make the long journey home.

He meandered through the maze of tables to avoid the wet floor signs that’d been put out during cleaning, and just as he approached the door, an abandoned coffee cup set carelessly on top of the bin caught his eye. It was from his shop. John glanced around nervously, but when the only other person there appeared to be an older gentleman straightening chairs, his curiosity got the better of him, and he grabbed the cup to check for a name. The paper beacon in his hand confirmed exactly what he’d hoped to find: a familiar name, and one hand-drawn bee. 

***

Halloween came and went, Bonfire Night passed without incident and before John properly looked up from his studies again, Christmas carols were ringing out of every speaker in London and it was damn cold. He swore he could see frost crystals collecting on his breath as it hung in the air before him. It’d been dry for two months, and for that he was exceedingly grateful, but it was still a raw kind of temperature, the sort that made it feel as though your nose might’ve fallen off between the bus and the flat. 

John sat surrounded by mostly empty mugs, and clutching a steaming one to his chest just beneath his chin. It wasn’t that his flat was cold, it was simply… empty. One more year, one more holiday alone. It was still fine, he told himself. It was all fine. Except he knew that this time it wasn’t quite. Perhaps he wasn’t lonely. Perhaps he was bored. Boredom could mimic loneliness just as it mimicked hunger, he knew. Or, at any rate, he hoped. He leaned out of his one chair and pulled a book out of the low shelf beneath the window. The words came, parading before his eyes like dancers in a foreign ballet. They meant something, he was sure, but he couldn’t get the pulse of it. Sod reading, then. 

There must be something he could do to pass the hours, prove to himself that all he needed was a solid distraction. He risked a glance at his good notebook, the one he’d kept pristine, swearing to himself that one day… one day…

He rummaged in his desk drawer and found his favorite pen, blue with an ultra fine tip that made the words look more etched than written. It was only a notebook, he insisted to himself on a shaky exhale, opening the cover. He needed a placeholder name for his detective, something unique. He knew what it would be, but pretended the idea had only just casually occurred to him. If there was a skill John Watson possessed, it was lying to himself. 

His hand poised above the crisp, clean page for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and he began. 

_ ‘Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, was enamoured of bees.’ _

***

Maybe he would go down to the coffee shop early, have a chat with Mike. The holiday schedule had shuffled up everyone’s regular times. The two of them had only had their shifts swapped, but since neither of them had anything on anyway, they hadn’t much minded. John pulled on his warmest coat, and, guiltily, the scarf and gloves Harry had gifted him a year ago today. Christmas Eve, and he was still there, in London. She had drawn a shift herself, and, at first, he was relieved for the excuse not to travel, not to be away, not to face inquiries into his affairs and his motives and all those mum-like questions his older sister believed it was her role, her right, to ask. Now that Christmas Day was mere hours away, however, he mostly felt flat. He hadn’t managed more than a few sentences of his would-be novel, nor had he accomplished much else in the weeks since the skies grew increasingly darker. He’d managed to cut back on his mess of used tea cups around the flat, but it was truly the bare minimum, and knowing that had forced him into a bit of sulk. Yes, best if he got out for a bit.

Mike was downright jovial when John walked in, clearly affected by the cheery atmosphere in the bustling shop. It was mid-afternoon, and the last minute bargain shoppers were taking full advantage of the opportunity for peppermint-tinged refueling. 

‘John!’ Mike cried as he slid into an empty slot by the pickup counter. ‘What’re you doing here? I can’t believe he’s just missed you!’

John couldn’t help but laugh a bit, certain his friend was about to say something merry and absurd. ‘Who’s that, Santa?’

‘Wish I could tell you! Bloke comes in like he always does at the start of my shift, only he’s twenty minutes early. No clue what his name is, he always swans in, grabs a mobile order and leaves. I don’t bother looking at the ones you’ve put out, got enough to do on my own. Anyway, instead of scooping up a cup and walking out without a word as usual—rude guy, now I come to think of it—he asks if I’m “the bee guy.”’

John’s face fell, and a cold shiver ran down the back of his spine.  _ No. No, it couldn’t possibly have been.  _

‘I- I missed Sherlock Holmes?!’ he choked out. 

‘Is that his name? Tall guy, dark messy hair. Order for Jessica!’ he interrupted himself, handing off a macchiato, before continuing. ‘Wondered if he played on the street, he was carrying a violin case.’

_ Wait. Wait, no, this… but it was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t… he wasn’t… he couldn’t… _

John shouted to be heard above the din of customers, ‘Didn’t he give you a name when you took his order?’

‘Ha! Order for Lucas!’ He set out a croissant and a large double-bagged tea. ‘Weirdest thing, mate. When I asked if he wanted to give me a name, he said ‘no,’ so hell—that’s what I wrote on his cup!’ 

John felt as if his entire body had been plunged into glacial waters. It had never occurred to him, the odds were almost impossible.  _ Yet,  _ a voice resonated deep within him,  _ it isn’t impossible. _

‘Mike! Where did he go? Did you,’ he squeezed his eyes shut against the unlikelihood of it all, ‘by any chance, see where he went?’

‘Sorry mate, couldn’t say. He looked disappointed and just stalked out with his coffee.’

_ Fuck. _ ‘Fuck!’ He caught the eye of a woman doused in posh perfume. ‘Sorry. Mike, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but… is there any chance you could cover for me?’

‘Chasing Violin Guy, eh?’ He laughed again. ‘Have at it. Merry Christmas!’

***

The train had been packed, and John knew he had been lucky to get a ticket at all. Without a bag, he was even more thankful for the winter clothes Harry had supplied. He didn’t know what planet he was living on where this was less than desperate and insane, but he also knew the alternative was to spend a lifetime wondering. Sure, the odds were the Sherlock Holmes would come into the shop again, that he would see his mobile order on the screen and throw off all other responsibilities to stay and meet him. But in nearly a year, Sherlock had never come in early, not once. He had tried today, of all days, and it had all gone wrong. What if he stopped coming? He was at St Bart’s, yes… but where? When? What if he’d just been visiting a patient and never came through again? No, John was not going to take those risks. He needed to try.

He shouldered his way through the crowded terminal, getting turned around more than once.  _ Please don’t let them have taken the piano, please.  _ If it were gone, his entire plan, his entire basis for hope, would be gone with it. But there, just behind that newsstand, it appeared. A great sleek whale of a thing, rising out of the pedestrian sea to greet him like an old friend. John sat, just as before. He cracked his knuckles again, for luck, and placed his fingers. 

_ O, holy night,  _ he played into the station, the city, the world.  _ The stars are brightly shining. _

Nothing happened. No one came. No handsome man with a sharp shirt collar and sharper cheekbones stepped out of the crowd. But there was nothing else for it; he was here, and he would see this through. 

_ Fall on your knees, can’t you hear the angel voices. _

And he did. The angels sang for John. His chin trembled, threatening to spill welling tears down his face. The angels were singing just for him, and they sounded like-

The crowd parted around the man with the violin. As the instruments’ melody died away, their eyes locked once again. John slid off the bench and approached Sherlock slowly, as though he were a mirage in a desert of longing. His fingers shook as he reached out, pressed a tentative touch to the other’s neck. Time stopped for them then, noise and movement stilled as though God herself was blessing their meeting. Sherlock inhaled sharply, and John lunged, pressing a heavy kiss against his lips. He felt the awkward push of the violin against the muscles of his back, and nothing could have been more perfect. Sherlock sank into him, letting a full lower lip be nipped gently by John’s teeth before pulling away on a contented sigh. He tipped his head down, and a navy whisper filled John’s ear.

‘Shouldn’t you at least ask my name?’

John smiled, and chased Sherlock’s lips. ‘No.’


	10. Chapter 10

He had arrived in Paris with no bag, no hotel, no plan at all. It was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done. Fortunately, he knew his brother could be relied upon to bear the brunt of it. Mummy wouldn’t be pleased that he was away for the holiday (on absolutely zero notice), but perhaps his father would talk her down once he knew the reason. He was always the more romantic of the pair. In the meantime, he’d need to see if his star-crossed paramour had done any better planning than he had. He doubted it.

‘John, I must confess. I hadn’t exactly thought this through.’

‘Oh, what, you don’t have a hotel room on reserve for the possibility you’d run off to Paris on Christmas Eve to rendezvous with the love of your life?’

Sherlock spluttered, his mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish trying to catch its breath. 

‘I’m joking, maybe,’ John winked. ‘But no, I haven’t got a plan either. I asked around while you were in the loo, and it seems there’s one final train departing for London tonight, but they’ve only got first class seats.’

Sherlock smirked and held up a silencing finger while dialing rapidly with the other hand. ‘Yes, Mycroft! Merry Christmas. No, no I shouldn’t think so. Indeed, if you would be so kind. Ah, of course you have, shouldn’t do to leave your brother _unattended._ Excellent, see you tom-’ he glanced at John- ‘Boxing Day, I should think. Right, yes, of course. Well simply tell them…’ 

John seemed amused, interested, and entirely unfazed by what was happening. This man had something about him, and Sherlock was itching to find out what. 

‘Tell them it’s for love.’ He jabbed the mobile off with his thumb and shoved it into his pocket. 

‘Tickets, then?’ John inquired knowingly, a clever smile softening his features. 

‘Waiting at the gate,’ Sherlock confirmed. 

An hour later, they were pulling out of the berth, London bound. John’s eyes twinkled with the reflection of the station lights as their fingers slotted together. For the first time since Sherlock could remember, he felt the warm pulse of possibility thrumming through his veins. He leaned in and let his lips brush John’s jaw. Outside the train, a silent snow was falling. 


End file.
